Christ on a Pogo Stick

Well, the Baseball Gods decided to stop fucking around with ominous threats and skirmishes last night, and declared open war on the New York Yankees. Some hapless clubhouse attendant must have messed up the requisite burnt sacrifice of a white ox back in early March. Their revenge is swift and terrible.

In perhaps the most depressing 10-1 win in living memory, the Yankees' offense woke up against several hapless Texas Rangers while Phil Hughes, rookie sensation, had his gorgeous, dominating, self-assured, no-hit performance ended abruptly in the seventh inning by an major hamstring pull. He'll be out six weeks, and that's if you're optimistic -- which at this point would probably require heavy-duty pharmaceuticals.

Did this happen because Hughes was rushed to the majors? I don't know, honestly. It seems possible, but I know too little about anatomy and the medical effects of pitching mechanics to judge. Meanwhile, given the bonanza of pulls and strains and tears (Damon, Matsui, Mussina, Wang, and counting), there's a lot of scrutiny on the Yankees' new strength and conditioning coach, the alliterative Marty Miller. But I say they just need to appease the deities before Don Zimmer, with the help of a vengeful Poseidon, sends the team plane on a perilous, cursed, decades-long journey through strange and dangerous lands.

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story
of Brian Cashman, skilled in all ways of contending,
the wanderer, harried for years on end
after he plundered the stronghold
on the proud height of Shea...



[UPDATE: Willi Carroll of Baseball Prospectus doesn't think rushing Hughes had anything to do with the injury. That's good enough for me.]